


The Serious Headcase of Dean Winchester

by stone_in_focus



Category: Supernatural
Genre: Angst, Drabble, Friendship/Love, Gen, Internal Monologue, POV Dean Winchester, POV Second Person, Pre-Relationship, Season/Series 08
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2013-09-03
Updated: 2013-09-03
Packaged: 2017-12-25 11:46:37
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,507
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/952705
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/stone_in_focus/pseuds/stone_in_focus
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>In Dean's experience, having an angel around doesn't always make for smooth sailing. But not having him around is even worse.</p>
            </blockquote>





	The Serious Headcase of Dean Winchester

When you work this beat, the worst part isn't getting used to people dying.

It's getting used to them coming back.

See a guy resurrect so many times, and you get to believing that the laws of nature don't apply to him. You don't mean to do it—that quick jerk of the neck when you feel something at your shoulder, the bite in your tongue to hold a few choice words about personal space. Sam doesn't say anything about it anymore. Just slams that creaky old window shut, and you don't even notice till you hear him bitching about pneumonia as he tromps back over to his computer. Freaking Clydesdale.

And then comes the lump in the throat when you realize that bird ain't showing up for another lecture on breathing room.

Funny how the lungs feel tighter when he's not here.

Years ago, you'd call bullshit on their existence. 'Cause yeah friggin' right, Sammy. Angels? Those chubby little bastards that sit on fluffy white clouds singing about chariots all day? Creepy, sure, but  _real?_

Looking back, it's like you were just asking for a bite in the ass.

Why can't it ever be the sexy kind?

Cas didn't even blink while you shook your head at the irony of it all. "Are you suggesting we call the pizza man?"

You were still choking on your beer when Sammy walked in. Dude's  _really_  gotta work on his timing.

Guess you were wrong about them being all harps and halos. Turns out some angels come in a "look what the cat dragged in" flavor with a side of ego off the supersize menu. Kind of sad, actually. All that power, and the guy can barely figure out how to do up his own damn tie without you wrangling him in.

Apparently, you didn't tie it tight enough.

You wonder where it all fell apart, what you could've done different, what you could've said to stop him from boarding the goddamn loony express. Before you knew it,  _you_  had to be the good little angel on his shoulder. Yeah, ain't that rich? 'Cause he didn't just buy a ticket; he choo-chooed so far off the rails that there was just…there was no coming back from a wreck like that.

But last you checked, angels still bled the same shade of red. Didn't matter if Cas was bent on bumping himself up to God status; you and Cas knew how to level with each other from day one. Have a few staring matches, throw a couple of punches, maybe find a liquor store and drink it...yeah, yeah, maybe even hug it out a little bit, but only because you were too stupid to think you could drink a freaking angel under the table. Hanging onto his neck at three in the morning while you fumbled for the motel key—that was just necessity more than anything. And Sam can go screw himself if he makes another lame-ass dick joke. Not like you were sitting around in your PJs watching soap operas and crying into your Häagen-Dazs. Well, except for that one...never mind.

Bottom line, you were brothers. _Family._

But suddenly, that wasn't enough.

When Cas went dark side, all you could do was stand by and watch, feel your gut turn inside out when you saw that wild look in his eyes like his brain was all fried to hell, extra crispy recipe. But as fucking terrified as you were, the one person that scared the shit out of you more than Cuckoo for Cocoa Puffs was yourself.

Because you'd never felt so fucking helpless.

Maybe that was your bad, thinking you could actually get through to that dickhead. Thinking you were actually important enough to get through to him.

You were right there, man. _Right there._  He could've asked anything,  _anything,_  and you would've…

Goddammit, Cas.

Whatever happened to the good ol' days, huh? The poltergeists, wendigos, the djinn...hell, you'd even take demons over this angel crap. At least demons are predictable; you know those bastards are lying through their teeth. But angels? What's their end game, really? Or are they still too busy duking it out upstairs to see who gets to be the next to sit on that throne of dicks?

Dad never would've put up with this bullshit.

So why are you?

Sometimes, you wish you could just turn it off, forget it all ever happened. But when you roll up your sleeve, you remember all over again.

"Real classy, Cas," you told him once you'd gotten him alone. "'Cause nothin' says 'I'm the angel's bitch' like a little love slap to the shoulder."

'Course, the dumbass just stared at you, eyes all squinty like you weren't sure if you'd sprouted two heads or if he was gonna eat you alive. "My orders came from the highest of commands. The Lord made it clear it was imperative that you be saved."

Yeah, awesome. 'Cause being God's bitch was so much better.

The scars've faded by now, but it's always stuck in the back of your mind like a bad hangover—that moment this whole "mission from God" business turned into something a little more personal. So personal you were about to piss your pants right in front of the angel keen on using you as a punching bag. "I gave  _everything_  for you."

That was all for you, huh, Huggy Bear? Well, that's just great. 'Cause not a day goes by that you don't wonder just how much of that blood was spilled because of you.

How much more you've spilled because of him.

You didn't ask for this, man. You would've been just peachy rotting down in that hellhole for all of eternity. And this was supposed to be for  _you?_  Dammit—it was supposed to be for the  _both_  of you!

Why the hell didn't that son of a bitch just listen?

Truth is, though, that same son of a bitch made you laugh. Made it hurt a little less. For the first time since Dad died, he made you believe in something. In some _one._  Made you think you could maybe...maybe even believe in yourself. And for that...Cas, he...he might've shaken what little faith you had, but you were the one yelling yourself hoarse every night. You were the one tearing up all of purgatory and leaving behind a trail of bodies just to find the dude.

And you were the one who was supposed to get both your asses topside. 'Cept now, your ass is the only one propped up on a bar stool, one drink short of falling overboard as you lean in to give the guy next to you a piece of Winchester wisdom. "Do yourself a favor, pal, and don't ever trust me. I don't need you people depending on me. I don't need people putting their goddamn life in my hands. To hell with you all."

And maybe it's just that ninth shot of whiskey blurring the eyes and loosening your mouth, but it's too late to choke the words back down once they're dangling out in the open. "'Cause I don't deserve it, man. I...I  _never_  deserved it."

It's a miracle you even make it back to the motel later that night, unsuccessfully avoiding a run-in with the table as you stumble into the bathroom. Hands cupped and head over sink, the shock gets to you worse than the ice cold water splashing against your face. You can wash off the grime and the dirt all you want, pretend like those cuts and bruises are badges of honor, but no matter how hard you try, reality's just gonna send another bitch slap your way as a friendly little reminder that you ain't ever gonna amount to shit. He raised you from perdition, and you couldn't do him the common courtesy of returning the favor. Hell, all you're really sure you've ever been able to do for him is show him how to tie a friggin' Windsor.

You never get down on your knees, but it still feels like begging. After all he's done for you, you actually have the balls to ask him for one more thing.

But you can't do this without him. _Won't._

Sammy's a good kid, tries to knock some sense into you, but it's hard to ignore the look on his face when you tell him you're seeing Cas, like you're two steps away from a straitjacket and an IV full of morphine. You know angels don't have ghosts, but you swear up and down that's exactly what you saw.

After a while, you quit telling Sam altogether.

Maybe it's just a fever dream. Maybe you really are going crazy. But when you glance in the mirror, there's no stopping that quick jerk of the neck, the bite at the back of your tongue.

And then comes the lump in the throat.

"Hello, Dean."

'Cause it's never been so damn good to see crazy.


End file.
